


Fair Compensation

by karasgotagun (jazzmckay)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Boot Worship, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Failed Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Machine Upgraded Connor | RK900, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24465271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmckay/pseuds/karasgotagun
Summary: After successfully shutting down the android rebellion, Richard Perkins is gifted with his very own RK900.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Richard Perkins
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Fair Compensation

The past couple weeks of FBI Agent Richard Perkins’ life have been among his best. For the successful shut-down of the android rebellion, he is recognized as a protector of not only Detroit, but the United States, and has received official commendation from the President herself for his service. The country has changed, and Richard had a hand in molding it into its new shape.

He doesn’t see any reason to be humble about it, and when paperwork comes in for the Detroit FBI’s very own military-grade android, freshly programmed to remove all traces of the deviancy virus, he sees it as fair compensation.

On a Monday morning, late into November, an RK900 is waiting for him.

Richard sips his coffee as he passes through the bullpen to his office, already sizing up the android who is standing at parade rest just outside his door. It’s tall—a little too tall, he thinks—and built sturdy, cutting an imposing figure. Meant for the military battle-field, meant to be intimidating and difficult to put down. The number on its jacket is low—only unit eighty-seven out of the thousands that will ship overseas.

Its placid face does not change as it locks eyes with Richard’s. “Agent Perkins, I am—”

“Follow me,” Richard interrupts, passing by it and going into his office.

The machine does as instructed, stopping a couple feet in front of Richard’s desk and returning to its default position while Richard sets down his briefcase and his coffee, going through his usual routine of waking his computer and settling in.

He loads up his e-mail, letting out a light sigh when he sees how many unread messages have already stacked up since he checked remotely while waiting for his coffee to be brewed at the shop down the block.

Since giving the order for the remainder of Jericho’s forces to be gunned down in Hart Plaza, his job has become far less thrilling—less action, more paperwork and correspondences. It’s to be expected. He chooses his first task for the day and starts drafting a response.

“Agent Perkins—” RK900 starts.

Richard interrupts it again. “From now on, you will not speak unless I ask for your input. Understood?”

The android’s LED flickers—still blue—and then it gives a curt nod. “Understood, Agent Perkins.”

“’Sir’ is fine,” Richard says, already growing weary of the machine’s speech patterns.

“Yes, sir.”

It’s a far cry from how most androids used to be. It doesn’t emote at all, not even with a baseline of politeness that Richard is familiar with from all the android secretaries, assistants, and shopkeepers he has seen in the last decade. Already, he can tell that CyberLife chose to downgrade the social programming, sacrificing human-like qualities for assurance that they won’t malfunction the same way their predecessors did.

Richard doesn’t intend to trust that the RK900 series is without its flaws, however. He doesn’t plan to trust an android with his life—or the lives of his subordinates—until he has evaluated the machine properly.

A stress test might be in order.

CyberLife has forwarded him information on the RK900. Richard peruses that next, and once he has the gist of it, he leans back in his chair to regard the android in question.

“Give me a rundown of your primary functions and specializations,” he says.

The answer is immediate, like an automated response. “The RK900 series is equipped with a complete range of combat protocols and the adaptability functions necessary to efficiently respond to any field situation before human lives may be put at risk. This chassis is built to withstand wear and tear so that it can continue to serve the FBI and protect human interests for years to come. With the most advanced processor CyberLife has built to date, the RK900 can compile and manage information pertaining to the FBI’s operations and provide real-time analysis of all forms of evidence.”

Richard might as well be listening to a simple and robotic voice over the phone, telling him that he will be patched into a higher-up’s direct line, for all the personality and individuality RK900 is exuding.

It’s unlike any android he has interacted with before, even the one that shared its face.

“And what is your objective, 87?”

“My objective is to assist the Michigan branch of the FBI in all operations as dictated by my commanding officer.”

“Who is?”

The android blinks languidly. “You, sir.”

“That’s right,” Richard says, lips curling into a grin. “I’ve read the reports on your prototype, the RK800. Its objective served CyberLife first and foremost, rather than the Police Department, and it led to conflicts of interest. Led to it disobeying its own commanding officer.”

He stops, waiting to see if RK900 picks up on what he’s getting at, to see how it responds.

It takes a moment and the spin of its blue LED, but then it says, “All of the RK800’s errors have been patched; this unit will not experience the same malfunctions. Unlike RK800, the RK900 series isn’t subject to CyberLife oversight. This unit is the full property of the FBI.”

That’s exactly what Richard wants to hear. CyberLife, after all, is the company that created a product so faulty it got innocent humans killed. CyberLife is the company that caused a nation-wide panic and state of emergency. If 87 is going to be a permanent fixture in his department, he wants it to listen to him—only him. He wants full control over it, in case he senses that its coding is breaking down and it needs to be deactivated before it deviates.

“Good,” he says. “I won’t tolerate the same bugs that the DPD did. You will function flawlessly, or not at all.”

Another moment of processing, then 87 gives a slight nod. “Understood, sir.”

Richard returns his attention to his computer, leaving the RK900 to stand stock-still in the center of his office, back straight and hands folded neatly at the small of its back. He watches it out of the corner of his eye while he goes about his work, never once seeing it move from its position, never seeing its LED become overactive, never seeing even the hint of fake emotion on its features.

It really is nothing but a machine, only acting when Richard tells it to.

He could get used to its subservience.

* * *

Richard insists on being present for 87’s first several field operations, even when they’re simple things that a small team could handle without the involvement of a commanding officer. He wants to see it in action himself, to confirm that 87 is as restricted to following the FBI’s orders as it claims.

And it is. The android proves formidable in the field and an invaluable asset, but seeks permission before following any leads, quicker to inform and then follow protocol than to act out of turn the way RK800 did.

A month into 87’s stay with the FBI, they’re cornering a suspect who lashes out when he spots the towering android in the team’s midst.

He fires his gun and Richard sees a splash of blue as it catches 87 in the side of its face, leaving a gouge just under its cheekbone that exposes the plating and machinery inside, all coated in thirium from a torn wire.

The android doesn’t give the slightest reaction, staying in formation while the team subdues the suspect.

One thing Richard knows about deviants is that they react to damage and other perceived threats. Some kind of self-preservation routine—maybe a mutation of code originally meant to save their owners from being left with a broken and useless product—masquerading as fear and anger.

As 87 said, RK900s don’t succumb to the same malfunction.

Back at the station, 87 does temporary repairs using the toolkit CyberLife sent along with it, melding a carbon fibre patch over the hole in its face until they can get a proper technician to come in with replacement plating.

Then they’re back in Richard’s office, the same as usual.

The android is passive, unconcerned. It doesn’t act out. It listens to everything Richard says.

But it could stand to be pushed a little further. On a night that could already be classified as stressful, it’s the perfect opportunity to find out if even an RK900 can reach the limit of tension that sends it into a processing spiral, ruining its code.

“Come here, 87.”

As the android approaches, Richard rolls his desk chair back and turns it to the side; 87 gets the idea and circles around until it’s standing directly in front of him.

“Window opacity at 100%,” Richard says. The program that runs the electronics in his office sends the glass pane facing the bullpen into darkness. To 87, he adds, “And you, get down on your knees.”

There’s the faintest blip of yellow in its LED before its knees bend and it drops to the floor with inhuman grace, perfectly measured and steady.

Richard leans forward to grip its chin, turning its head to inspect the patch job on its face. The mesh is visible at the edges, tinted blue until the thirium stains dry out and disappear.

“That was a close call, today,” he says. “I thought your reaction time was quicker than this.”

“The damage is negligible,” 87 says. “By allowing the bullet to make contact, I slowed its trajectory and made it less likely to hit a different target.”

Richard makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, pleasantly surprised by the explanation. Better that a machine gets damaged than an agent gets shot.

“Let me see,” he says, moving his fingers to 87’s lips and pushing.

More yellow at the android’s temple, but no red. It parts its lips, jaw unlocking enough that Richard can pry its mouth the rest of the way open, tilting its head upwards. He can just barely see the damage to the inside of 87’s cheek, a mess of warped and frayed metal.

Sinking his fingers deeper, Richard presses down on 87’s tongue—it feels exactly like a human tongue, maybe a fraction smoother—and then prods at a jagged edge of plating. Nothing sharp enough to draw blood, but close to it, if he were to apply the right pressure.

Forehead creasing just slightly, 87 makes a surprised noise, quickly aborted when Richard pushes harder on its tongue.

Yellow, again. Processing, because this is not something it is programmed to expect. Richard pulls his fingers back, scraping his nails along the wet, synthetic flesh, then shoves them right back in all the way to the knuckle.

Despite its confusion, 87 doesn’t resist. It doesn’t pull back or bite down or make any other attempt to stop Richard from moving his fingers in and out of its mouth. Its artificial breath is hot and its mouth is slick with synthetic saliva that coats its bottom lip when Richard drags his wet fingers over it.

He quite enjoys the sight of 87 like this, as obedient as all androids should have been from the start.

Richard wonders if he could really order it to do anything and have those orders carried out. Wonders if anything can make 87’s LED go red.

Pulling his fingers out of 87’s mouth, Richard wipes them along the outside of its cheek to dry them of saliva, which 87 allows unflinchingly. Richard can think of another use for that tongue.

“My boots are a little dirty,” Richard says. “Why don’t you clean them up?”

Frowning, 87 glances down at Richard’s feet, then around what little of the office it can see from its position partially behind the desk, as if searching for an explanation or more details on what is expected of it.

“With your tongue, 87.”

Yellow overtakes blue, solid and unwavering.

“This is not one of my usual functions.”

“What is your objective?”

“To assist the FBI in all operations as dictated by my commanding officer.”

“And remind me who your commanding officer is, 87?”

The android’s voice is quiet when it answers. “You, sir.”

Richard doesn’t need to reiterate his order before the android is shuffling backwards on the floor so it has enough room to bow deep, planting its hands down to support itself as it brings its face just above Richard’s feet.

Here, it hesitates, hovering in place.

“Go on,” Richard urges.

He can just barely see 87’s yellow LED before it ducks down and licks a stripe over the length of his boot, from the toe to the point at which the laces start. It pulls back, wets its lips in a way Richard would call nervous, if it weren’t an emotionless machine, then does it again, this time an inch to the right.

Heat pools in Richard’s abdomen, a pulse of arousal travelling through him. He never understood why so many people wanted to fuck androids, before, with how uncannily human-but-not their social programming used to be. Now, though… 87’s code doesn’t even try to convince Richard that it’s anything more than a machine ready for use.

Resting a palm over the crotch of his slacks, he considers new possibilities.

There are white marks just above Richard’s soles from slushy snow and ice salt. 87 dutifully cleans them away one pass of its tongue after another. Richard sits back in his chair, getting comfortable as he watches 87’s progress between his spread thighs, enrapt by the slow, methodical way the android maps his boot without missing a single spot.

The LED at 87’s temple returns to blue as it seemingly acclimatizes to the task. When Richard’s left boot is completely shiny with saliva and clear of smudges, it switches to the other, quickly continuing.

It’s applying itself so thoroughly to Richard’s orders, and it makes Richard stiffen in the confines of his slacks, to the point of being uncomfortable. He pops open the top button and eases the zipper down, letting out a soft groan when the pressure is alleviated.

At his feet, 87 glances up at him, its wet lips still parted.

“You aren’t finished, are you?” Richard questions pointedly.

87 shakes its head but its eyes are fixed on Richard’s hand slipping into his briefs to wrap around his erection.

Richard can’t guess what might be going through its processor, but he doesn’t care. “Get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” 87 says. Gaze falling back to the floor, it ducks over Richard’s right boot and does as told.

Matching the pace of 87’s licks, Richard pulls his hand up his cock, starting to imagine what it would be like to use the android’s mouth for this, too. From the way its tongue felt under his fingers, he bets it’s hardly different from a human mouth. He bets it would suck as dutifully as it is attending to his boots, methodical and unwavering, at Richard’s beck and call.

Pre-come starts to pearl at the head of his cock and he gathers it on his fingers, making for a smoother slide along his length. It would still be better with 87’s slick mouth, if only the inside of the android’s cheek weren’t currently made of torn machinery.

Its tongue will have to do.

Raising his left foot, Richard rests the sole of his shiny boot on 87’s shoulder and uses it to leverage the android upright. It blinks at him, brow furrowed, as he tilts the toe of his boot closer to its jaw. The motion catches 87’s attention, and it—not yet knowing why Richard has stopped it—turns its head to lick across the edge of the sole.

The sight makes Richard’s cock twitch in his hand. He has half a mind to let 87 keep going, now that he can see its work from a better angle, but he fights to keep his mind focused.

“How clean is that mouth of yours?” he asks.

“My saliva includes a sterilization agent that cleans up evidence once analysis is complete. Would you like the chemical breakdown?”

“Is it toxic or a potential irritant to human skin?”

“No.”

Richard grins. That’s what he’d been hoping for, wary of having a tongue that was on his boot be used on his cock. “Clean your mouth, then.”

After giving the android a moment during which its LED flickers to signal a subroutine under effect, he taps his toe against 87’s jaw, then pulls away, resting his foot back on the floor. “You’re going to do the same to my cock, now.”

There’s a beat of silence wherein 87 just looks at him blankly, LED swirling.

“I don’t—” it starts. Stops. A single rotation of yellow. “Yes, sir.”

It obediently crawls forward into the space between Richard’s thighs and lowers its face to Richard’s erection, nose bumping into it clumsily before it laves its tongue up the underside.

As Richard expected, it feels indistinguishable from a human, all soft, wet heat that sends a shudder down his spine. The android doesn’t seem to know what else to do but repeat the action a second time, lacking knowledge for something that’s so far outside its parameters, which is just as well. Richard doesn’t want it taking free action.

He cups his hand under 87’s chin and holds it still by his tip; it learns quickly, using its adaptability to understand what Richard wants, beginning to lick over the sensitive ridge. It glances up at him, its blank, grey eyes searching for assurance that it’s following Richard’s orders adequately.

Its ministrations are hesitant, unskilled, but it’s enough that tension is building throughout Richard’s whole body, making him hot under his collar. Richard says, “That’s better.” Adds, impulsively, “Keep your eyes on me.”

He moves his hand when 87 no longer needs the guidance, replacing it on the back of the android’s head. Curling his fingers, he takes a grip of its hair, holding on as it continues to swipe its tongue over his slit between licking up his shaft, eyes never blinking or straying.

It takes it with grace when Richard bucks his hips, shoving his cock harder against its tongue and lips.

It doesn’t break, doesn’t snap; it just takes it.

Its LED goes blue.

CyberLife’s patches must be absolute after all, making an android who will take a bullet without concern and bow at Richard’s feet to clean his boots without complaining, and suck cock simply because Richard told it to. Once its plating is repaired, Richard can have it properly, completely wrapped around him, giving him whatever he wants. He’ll have it keep his boots in remarkable condition and he’ll fuck its mouth whenever he pleases.

Tightening his fingers in 87’s hair, Richard holds it steady above the head of his cock.

“Open up wide, 87,” he says. 87 obliges.

With a groan, Richard gives himself a couple final jerks to bring himself over the edge. White ropes land over 87’s tongue; it stays put while Richard finishes, even when the last spurt leaves a glob slowly rolling down its chin.

Richard smirks as he relaxes back in his chair, going boneless. “Swallow all that up.”

87 closes its mouth, swallows as its LED spins back into yellow. It brings two fingers up to its chin to gather the rest, sucking it off into its mouth.

When it’s done—back to blue. Never red.

Richard nudges its leg with his boot. “We’re done, back on your feet.”

It obeys, placing a hand on the front of Richard’s desk drawers to steady itself as it stands. Eyes downcast, it moves away, going to stand beside the door and face the opposite wall. Normally, it stands at attention facing Richard’s desk, but seems to recognize that Richard is finished with it for the evening and is preparing itself for standby.

After allowing himself the time to cool down, Richard gathers himself back into his pants, then gets his things together to leave the office. There’s paperwork to do pertaining to the case they closed, but it can wait until the morning, along with 87’s repair.

As he’s passing by to the door, Richard stops in front of the android. It glances up at him, face as emotionless as always with its dead eyes and resting frown.

“Keep this between us,” Richard says.

He continues on, pushing through his office door.

Behind him, 87’s voice is quiet, a hairbreadth above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> ty for reading :D
> 
> come hang out and talk about dbh at the [new era discord server!](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm)


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